Kaira Rouda - Favourite Daughter

Tragic accidents happen all the time. That’s why I watched my daughters every moment of their lives, never letting them out of my sight, one way or another, ever. They were like extensions of my arms, a hand for each of them. My little mini-mes.

I glance at the boy next door and then to the ground two stories below. There is nothing to break his fall if he topples out, just a thin strip of cement between his house and ours. I shudder at the thought. We pay astronomical prices to live on top of each other at the coast. Proximity and privilege means it’s hard to keep secrets here. Turns out it’s also hard to keep friends, and family.

The child is waving at me. I try to help him, pointing and mouthing the word down like I’m commanding a dog. I know all of the tragic things that can happen to him. Children who land on a hard surface, such as concrete, are twice as likely to suffer head injuries.

I can’t witness this tragedy. Glass or no glass, I tiptoe away from the table, waiting for the sharp sensation of a shard slicing through my foot. I’m almost out of the minefield of glass when I realize I have company.

“What are you doing?” Enter stage right: my handsome husband, David, thick brown hair, blue eyes, dimpled—a model WASP—is in the kitchen and assessing the scene. He could have been an actor, he’s perfectly typecast as the successful businessman, 1950s to today.

“I made a mess of things,” I say before covering my face with my hands. I can’t resist leaving a small space between my fingers to peek at him. His smile fades as he drops his briefcase on the kitchen counter. Poor dear.

“Is that broken glass on the dining room floor?”

“Dropped a glass. An accident.” I mumble my response from behind my hands.

“Are you hurt?” He takes a few steps, shoes crunching on glass, and he’s beside me.

“I think I’m fine, but can you call the people next door?” I drop my hands from my face and point out the window.

“The Johnsons?”

“Yes, their child is about to die.”

I watch David push his thick dark hair off his forehead, a nervous habit he’s acquired in the past year. “What? Stop talking like that. It’s creepy.”

I sort of scare him these days. I’m not sure why exactly. Perhaps it is my seemingly unshakable grief? Is he afraid it will envelop him, too?

He steps closer and looks out the window. I do, too. The child has disappeared, hopefully safe in his nanny’s arms. Or he’s died from the fall. My mind jumps to terrible conclusions these days, but unfortunately, my mind is often correct. Feminine intuition, you really can’t beat it. Mine is superbly tuned.

“There’s no one there, Jane.”

“I can see that. He was there just a minute ago.” I hate it when he doesn’t believe me and it’s been happening more and more these days. I don’t like it. That’s one of the reasons I stopped taking the pills. I mean, your husband should love you and worship the ground you walk on. He doesn’t just now, I know, but he will again. I’m back. He’ll see. I take a deep breath. I need to make my husband treasure me again. I will provide him with that opportunity starting tonight. He has been avoiding me. Like I carry a disease. I’m not contagious. Of course, there are other things holding his interest these days. He thinks I don’t know about that. Silly man. I force a smile to my lips, blink my eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Now he attempts kindness. What’s the old saying: a day late and a dollar short?

“Don’t think so.” I shrug as he takes my hand. As we touch I wish it was electric like in the long-ago days, but it’s not. Of course, all relationships change over time, and we’ve been married for more than two decades. Back in the early days, that first year together, he would have scooped me into his arms and carried me to a chair. Now that we’re a longtime married couple, he escorts me old-lady style to the kitchen and pulls out a bar stool. I slide onto the cold, hard wooden seat.

David checks my feet for glass while I stare at the top of his head. He’s blessed with thick dark brown hair, without a streak of gray. Mary had the same glorious mane of hair. In fact, Mary looks a lot like David, despite the fact she was adopted. Isn’t that funny? Two daughters, one who looks just like my husband, the other, Betsy, our biological daughter, who looks like a watered-down version of me. Perfect, isn’t it?

“You’re not cut. I’ll sweep up the glass. Why don’t you go put socks on? Your feet are freezing.”

I slide off the bar stool. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, handsome.” I bat my eyes at him and slowly lick my bottom lip. I should win a domestic Golden Globe. Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that men love to be flattered. David’s no exception. Tell a man he’s handsome, smart, strong or, the doozy, the best you’ve ever had in bed, and, well, they’ll love you at least in that moment. I just need to win him back, make him love me again. And I know I can do it. He loved me once, and deep down, he still does. For now, I’ll just kill him with kindness. It’s the Southern belle in me. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

See. David flashes a smile, a crack in the armor, pats my shoulder. I used to have him so well trained. Husbands. You let up just a little and they regress. And then he’s back to business. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not overdoing it, are you?”

“I love this, this entertaining, you know that.” I never did, actually, and I’m not fine. I’m angry, but I smile. I glance at David, my eyes taking in his cool demeanor, his practiced professional air. We speak in a stilted language now, tiptoeing around each other like we’re both surrounded by broken glass. This year has been hard on our marriage in so many different ways. I’m committed to fixing things, to getting us back on track. I know this happens in every relationship. We’re just in a down cycle. I’m sure you’ve been there, too. I’m afraid we’re running out of time. Betsy will graduate soon. She needs to see us, her parents, in love. All kids want is happy parents. While she’s at community college going to class, she should imagine us here, at home, waiting to share dinner together each evening, a model of marital bliss.

I hope we can present a united front for her this week. It’s always best to hang on to the one you know, at least until you find something better, that’s what my mom told me. And we were so good together, David and I. Meant to be.

“You set the table for four. That’s just creepy. Are you trying to upset us?” he asks, his voice thick with emotion. Is it anger, too? I don’t know.

“No, I’m trying to have a family dinner. Dr. Rosenthal told me to. I’m sorry, I must have made a mistake. Subconscious. I miss her so much.” I look out the window. It’s safe now because it’s dark outside and the ocean is invisible. All I see is my reflection. Tight, formfitting white T-shirt, sparkling heart. I do look good.

“How do you make that kind of mistake? Really, Jane?” David’s shaking his head. I need to woo him, not disappoint him, and I should try to refrain from spooking him.

Focus, Jane.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, darling.” I dig my fingernails into the palm of my right hand and smile at my husband. David’s watching me admire my reflection. What does he think when he sees me? He can’t deny that I’m beautiful, but I know he doesn’t see me with the same loving thoughts of the past, that much I know is true. We all change, especially in the face of unimaginable tragedy like we’ve been through. It’s understandable. That’s why I’m giving him one last chance. Starting tonight.

I turn to face him and take a step closer. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, tilts his head. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark. He thinks he’s a tough guy. I take another step toward him and he backs away. Ha!